Aftershocks
by Britpacker
Summary: Sequel to "Sweeter Shockwaves". Released from sickbay, Lieutenant Reed has time to contemplate the events of a dramatic day. Tucker/Reed slash.


Standard disclaimer: They're still Paramount's. I do this for fun alone, and if you're offended by some strong language, look away now.

Sequel to "Sweeter Shockwaves" and told from Malcolm's point of view, this is, as usual from me, Tucker/Reed slash.

Aftershocks

Creeping Jesus, I'm sore!

What else did you expect, man, having been kicked around the bridge by dozen Suliban for half an hour? The things one does for duty. I have a new appreciation for the life of a leather windbag on an English Saturday afternoon.

Phlox's ghastly collection of creepy-crawlies has successfully reduced my many swellings; I'm doped up to the bloodshot eyeballs with painkillers. And still I can't sit, stand or lie comfortably. As for looking in the mirror… it's just as well I'm not vain.

Maybe I should be. Commander Tucker –_ Trip_ – called me pretty.

If anyone else said that, crunched ribcage or no, I'd have swung for them. When _he_ came out with it… well, I'm not sure which of us was the more gobsmacked. If Crewman Cutler hadn't nearly choked herself trying not to laugh I'd write off the whole incident as a hallucination caused by concussion.

Bloody Suliban. What I'm going to do Silik next time we catch him won't be in any Starfleet instruction on the _humane treatment of prisoners;_ it'll be lifted straight from the Section 31 interrogation manual and involve a sharp knife and some crucial alien tendons. Sadistic green shit.

Ow!

Don't get mad, Reed. It makes you twitchy, and that sends a spasm of naked flame through your chest. Nothing broken, Phlox confirmed. I'm beginning to doubt his qualifications.

There's a glass of water on my cabinet but to reach it I have to stretch, and every muscle in my trunk squawks a warning against that kind of adventurous movement. All right; sit up and shuffle on my arse. It's the only portion of my anatomy that hasn't encountered a Suliban toecap today.

I knew what I was letting myself in for. Sneaking through the ship to Daniels' cabin I knew they were watching; waiting. They thought I thought I was getting away with it. Brains in their granite boots. I rather enjoyed leading them a dance.

And when I stepped out of the cabin, turning to deadlock the door with a different code – just in case – I knew they were mustering behind me. I didn't feel fear: just a grim satisfaction as the trap sprang shut. There's an almost sensual thrill in knowing you're cleverer than the other bloke at the best of times, and when he's as nasty a bastard as Silik the pleasure's damn-near orgasmic.

It lasts about as long, too. Being thrown up against the bulkhead certainly snaps a chap out of his post-coitals and by the time we reached the bridge my ears were ringing, neck muscles wrenched from a succession of left-rights from the shock brigade. I bit my lip, sucked in as much air as I could and tried surreptitiously to relax each individual muscle. The more you tense, the greater the body's resistance, the worse the pain.

Never thought I'd be thanking Harris as I took a beating, but it gave me something to focus on when the blood filled my mouth and a pair of size 13's tried to squeeze this morning's breakfast back onto my tongue.

I've spent most of my adult life playing a part; another reason I insisted on putting myself up as Silik-bait. To hold focus under torture and perform, word-perfect, as the terrified victim isn't something a novice could pull off. I remember the ends of my fingers turning white as I clutched Daniels' quantum whatever-it-was, putting up just enough of a fight to ensure my captors wouldn't lose interest in favour of the sport of Malcolm-mashing: then letting go before resistance became too obviously suicidal.

Face facts, Reed. Concentration on minor details holds the terror at bay. They could have killed me. I knew it, subconsciously. The trick, as always, is controlling the natural fear.

Damn. Now I'm shivering. Delayed reaction. It's a sign I'm on the mend, however sore I feel.

They could have killed me.

I was dazed by the time Silik hurled me into the captain's chair; seeing at least three fists coming toward me for every blow. That final wheezy _"Please!"_ wasn't entirely down to my Oscar-worthy thespian skills; I really couldn't have taken much more.

When he hauled me out of the chair, dropping me face-down on the deck like a tenderised steak, I thought it was over. The knife between the shoulderblades, or a disruptor to the back of the neck? I remember that flash of cold calculation through my bruised brain. It all but drowned the disdainful order that saw me manhandled by a couple of phlegm-green menials, my feet dragging and my head rolling, all the way back to B Deck.

I may have blacked out when they hurled me into my quarters. I can remember – I think – clutching my injured arm to my battered chest. I recall feeling the weight of pain pressing me into the coarse carpeting. I remember my stomach's roll; the dizzy, nauseous sensation. I suppose I drifted, in and out of consciousness. In and out of agony.

When _he_ came in I thought I was hallucinating. His voice rang hollow, like a shout through a thick sea fog. "Malcolm!"

I tried to curl up tighter, ashamed to be seen in such a state. Repulsed by my weakness. I even tried – pathetically – to pacify him. "'m all right."

Even his drawl's never that thick. My bottom lip was so fat, my tongue shredded where I'd bitten into it, that I could hardly force the words out. Anyway, Trip wasn't fooled. He's heard me being _fine_ with a bullet lodged in my leg. He knows _all right_ means _not quite fine_.

And that means outright agony.

He hollered for Phlox in a falsetto no shrieking opera dame ever bettered; then crumpled himself up on the floor at my side, too heavenly-kind to say a word when I cringed, trying to hide my battered face in the matting. I closed my eyes; tried to match my breathing to the strong, regular huffs of his. I could smell his aftershave, warm and woody through the sweat of a nightmare day. Just knowing he was there – that somebody cared enough to come for me – made the screaming pain through my trunk and skull more bearable.

Then I felt them.

Fingers. Gentle and strong, carding through my hair. For a moment I stopped breathing altogether.

Not exactly my first mistake of the day (getting out of bed was probably that), but not my brightest move, either. My lungs began to burn. I coughed.

Blood stung, coppery and tart in the spittle that coated my mouth. I knew it had gone further when Trip stooped over me, wiping my lips clean with the cuff of his sleeve.

I wanted to apologise but before I could splutter the hand in my hair began to move again. I could easily have been hypnotised by the feel of his fingers, almost massaging my scalp – he couldn't know I'm sensitive that way, that under better circumstances the shivers would've run right down to my toes. As it was they only got as far as the solar plexus before running smack into a solid wall of pain.

"It's okay," I heard him croon. His free hand dropped on my shoulder, plucking hopelessly at my jumpsuit. "Can you make it to bed with some help?"

Bed. God that sounded wonderful!

Getting there was torture, though Trip, God love him, was as gentle as could be; so obviously terrified of hurting me he made matters worse, groping and fumbling like a virgin at a gangbang, the heel of his hand connecting with my flank precisely where it had met the steel point of a Suliban toe earlier. Pain knifed down into my groin but I ground my teeth and refused to wince. He wanted to help.

I didn't want him to stop.

But he was so distracted I had to call him back to the moment, alarmed myself by the raspiness of my worried "Trip?" There was a rattle in my chest. Forming the syllable hurt. Even halfway to vertical my head was off on its own private merry-go-round. I don't remember how I got to horizontal.

He asked something; I said yes and found a cup of icy water stinging my lips. My stomach revolted, but a few gentle rubs – how I wished I could ask him to do it for me! – helped settle it, and I answered his fretful question about _damage_ as honestly as I could. I even swore.

"Fucking granite boots."

One doesn't swear in the presence of a superior office. Dad's image reared up in front of me, and Lucifer's own couldn't have been more unwelcome. I blinked, choking on the dribble of liquid he fed me while my stinging eyes cleared and the smooth, boyish planes of our golden engineer's swam back into focus, all earnestness as he rambled about bad language and the Vulcan Priestess.

So lovely, honeyed Trip. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him so.

Thank goodness for over-loud, clucking Denobulans. Phlox's jolly invasion saved me from terminal humiliation even while it increased the clanging in my skull and made my guts lurch when he and Cutler loaded me onto their trolley. Like a sailor hanging onto a drifting log, I clutched at Commander Tucker's reassuring drawl, calling me _Mal _and admonishing me against _givin' the Doc any trouble_ until the crashing waves calmed and I could, cautiously, lift my whirling head.

That's when I saw myself.

Now, I'm no oil-painting usually, but Christ! Blown up like a beachball covered in dog shit, blood crusting my nostrils and dribbling down from a gash in my bottom lip… no wonder I couldn't see properly.

My eyes were slitted, squeezed between the swellings on cheekbones and brow. Every Suliban fingerprint glared out of the shiny bulkhead at me, and blinking did nothing to improve the image this time. "You did say it could get ugly," I heard myself say.

I went cross-eyed following the roundabout movement of his hand, and it still caught me unawares when it wrapped around mine. "Dontcha worry 'bout a thing, Mister Reed," he whispered, husky and croaking as he squeezed. My heart flipped over, because surely nobody has ever looked at me with that much tenderness before. "Phlox'll have you lookin' pretty as ever in no time - right, Doc?"

I heard the air whistle between Cutler's front teeth. In that instant I could hear every breath each individual took. "I had no idea you considered me _pretty_, Commander," I cooed.

And immediately wanted to add another bootprint to the dozens already decorating my torso. He blushed. Bit his lip. Stared at the floor. I know Phlox was babbling about superficial damage; probably reciting a list of medicinal marvels in reptilian form to be attached to my Halloween mask of a mush. He could've been declaiming Elizabeth the First's Golden Speech and it wouldn't have penetrated. Oh God, I'd embarrassed him! For the first time all day I felt sorry enough for myself to cry.

He rallied with a quip about having eyes; then the strident tones of Sub-Commander T'Pol screeched down the corridor. He hesitated; stared at me with those lovely wide blue orbs filled with confusion.

Suddenly my wounds didn't matter. I was strong. He needed me.

Even if it was only to set him on his way with a last gruff warning over his shoulder about my behaviour in Sickbay. I gave him a salute that engulfed my arm in flames then lay back, letting the pain surge through me. Somehow it didn't seem so bad.

It felt cleansing. As if I was being purified.

All the way through Phlox's kindly torments I held the memory of his frightened, hopeful face, cradling it like a kiddie with a sleeping kitten as I was prodded, dosed and stickered with a dozen different insects. Perhaps they helped deaden the pain.

Perhaps I didn't need them. The soothing warmth that spread out of my chest could just as well have been the wondering, glorious realisation beginning to dawn.

I think _Commander Fucker_ – good ol' Trip, the alien babe-attractor – has feelings for me.

Of course he'd be concerned for any colleague injured in the line of duty, but... holding hands? Stroking hair? Gazing down with his whole generous heart in those beautiful summer-sky eyes, pushing his luscious lips together to keep them from trembling? It's too good to be true… but I think it just might be.

He caught my eye on Day One; it was all I could do not to stare when Captain Archer made the introductions and he stuck out a hand, giving me the full benefit of that cocky, _everybody's-gonna-like-me_ smile before drawing out "good ta meet ya, Lootenant," to otherworldly lengths.

He probably thought I was a right git, but I retreated into my most formal shell from sheer embarrassment. There was no way on Earth or any other planet I was going to become friendly with that man. He could prove far too distracting, and an armoury officer can't allow himself a luxury of that kind.

I reckoned without the Tucker persistence, didn't I? He wouldn't let me keep my distance, chipping away at the barricades I built up, refusing to take offence at the occasional, desperate insolence. In fact, every minor rudeness seemed to bring him back, puppy-like, for more.

He liked me. He enjoyed my company. Slowly I started to appreciate that, and the raw physical attraction I feared began to ease. I'm not saying it went away – Christ, no! It simply ceased to matter in comparison with being his friend. Laughing at his jokes. Getting robbed and stripped to my undies with him on a supposedly safe holiday world. I've always assumed he's straighter than the Admiralty flagpole.

Perhaps it was safer that way.

Now my stomach's churning and the blood seems to fizz through my veins. Maybe you're in with a chance, Malcolm, my lad.

That spasm behind the ribcage was nothing to do with Silik's mob. That's my poor bruised heart contracting into a stony shell. Yeah, right. As if the darling of Starfleet – the golden boy – would be interested in you. That hammering's shaken your brain loose, Lieutenant.

Suddenly the painkillers have lost their limited effectiveness. I'm sore. Exhausted. I can't even summon the pride to pretend the stinging sensation around my eyeballs isn't tears. Is this what _giving up_ feels like?

Phlox made a point of placing my pillows – even fetched extras from the quartermaster himself – for maximum comfort and support. He'll probably pop in later to see how the invalid's faring. I can't hurl them all onto the floor, throw myself face-down on the bunk and beat seven bells out of the mattress. I'm an adult. An officer. A Reed.

We don't crumble to dust because we're beaten, tired and sorry for ourselves. We go on. Oh bugger off and leave me to wallow, whoever you are!

What was I saying about _going on_? Sit straighter, call out with conviction. "It's open."

"You're gettin' careless, Lootenant."

Pain roars through my torso. It's my own fault. I'm the halfwit that tried to leap up, shocked out of my stupor by the unexpected sight of my dream man.

"Easy." I can feel my face twisting; I know I'm not hiding the agony even before Trip reaches out, his fingers connecting, quite uselessly really, with my good arm. "I didn't mean to scare you. Um, I haven't woken you up, have I?"

"No, no." I'm floundering; I couldn't be less coherent or convincing if my handsome prince had just kissed me awake. "Phlox did warn me about sudden movements, but you know how much attention I pay his lectures."

It's a decent recovery and he accepts it with a harrumph, but he's uneasy. Trip doesn't dissemble well at the best of times, and I doubt anyone's ever scrutinised him quite as intently as I do now. His feet are firmly planted, shoulders back, head up… a classic _at ease_ stance, in fact. But there are fine tremors running the whole length of him, and he's nipping like a nervous rabbit at his bottom lip. "You've gotta listen to the Doc, Malcolm. He's a sensible guy."

He pauses; sucks in a breath that makes his upper body heave. "And he cares about you. We all – _I _care about you."

None of Silik's headshots made me this giddy. I'm seeing stars; feeling all my remaining strength seep out through my toes and taking the remnants of pain with it. "I care about you too," I whisper. I'm such a coward; I can't even meet his eyes as I release the deepest truth of my soul!

"Malcolm." Until I feel my name skimming across my forehead I don't even know he's moved, but here he is, towering over me, his arms raised in a ghost embrace. He's frightened to touch, damn him: he doesn't want to hurt me, but oh, how I long to be held!

"I didn't even know it 'til today but I'm in love with you, Malcolm Reed." He sounds dazed: or is that me, cognitive processes slowed by the sheer splendour of being enveloped in his warmth? Every sense is swamped, my war-damaged systems on the edge of an overload, and for the first time in my life I know no doubt. He loves me!

Good grief, man! You're singing inside your head like a giddy schoolgirl with a crush, get a grip on yourself!

My hands have a better idea. I'm almost disconnected, watching them lift to curl around his marvellous forearms, the fingers stroking, pressing through his sleeve. And still he's speaking, low and gravelly, words I register on a completely unconscious level. Words that ooze into my bloodstream, only penetrating my brain after settling themselves first in my heart.

"It almost killed me seein' you on the floor all broken and hurtin'. Now, I don't know how you feel about me – hell, I might've been readin' everythin' you said before backwards – but I can't pretend to either of us how I feel. I love you, and I'm kind of hopin'…"

"I'm bi." Best to get the practicalities out of the way before the snogging starts. "And I…"

Bastard repressive Britishness! The words are there, I can feel them like melted chocolate against my swollen tongue, and yet… "Iloveyoutoo."

The dam's breached. "I have for ages actually, but until today I thought… well, you're obviously straight, aren't you, all those alien lovelies falling at your feet and even if you weren't, we're so different you'd never look at me twice. Then you were so tender, and you held my hand and called me pretty…"

Ouf. Embarrassment kicks in like an angry Suliban, right below the ribs. I can feel myself blushing beneath the remaining bruises and bugger, I wish Phlox had left them all!

"_Pretty _doesn't do you justice, darlin'." I can feel myself twitch under the endearment but I can't make any further moves; that shadow-embrace becomes gloriously real and I'm being guided backward, carried into his lap as he lowers the best bum in Starfleet to the edge of my bed. "This okay? I don't wanna hurt you any more, but…"

"This is lovely." My mouth is right beside his ear, and before _Lieutenant Reed_ can raise objections Malcolm can't stop himself touching the shapely shell with a tongue-tip. I can feel the shiver running right through him.

"You're gorgeous," he breathes. "Sexy. Strong. Smart. And – mine?"

It's the little-boy-lost in the question that breaks me. "Yours," I sigh. If I could melt into him – be part of him forever – I would. My arms have found their way around him now; I have to hold on. Anchor myself in the astonishing reality of holding and being held.

"Sonofabitch." The epithet is so _him_ I can't help but laugh, and he gives me a crooked grin by way of acknowledgement. "If only I wasn't so dumb…"

"Oi! No insulting the man I love, thank you!"

The man I love. How good does it feel to blurt out those words? If Silik's gang burst into the room and took up where they left off on me I wouldn't feel a thing. Warp power? Who needs it? I could fly home without a starship I'm so bloody high!

"You've been right here waitin', all this time." His fingers hover beneath my jaw. I won't let a few bruises stand between my skin and his touch. I dip my head; rest my chin on the broad, blunt tips. Okay, it stings a bit, but being able to gaze up into wide blue eyes filled with love and awe is the most effective anaesthetic. He's fidgeting; manipulating us. His face is coming closer, filling my vision, and…

Bliss.

It's a proper first kiss – a little shy, our lips pressing and puckering, coming apart a split second before they find each other again, more certain, pressing harder, parting by degrees until the wetness of his tongue strokes my tingling skin. I can't get close enough, my hands roving over his broad back, down toward the dip above his buttocks while the taste of him floods me and the brush of his tongue-tip on the roof of my mouth rockets me up through the ceiling. Was that a moan? If so, I think it may have come from me.

"Oh, Malcolm." Bleary-eyed, he cups my head between his hands and swipes the remnants of my taste from his lower lip. He looks how I feel. Bewildered. Exultant. In love.

Maybe it's the lovely feeling of lassitude that he's released through me: Phlox would probably chunter about neural chemistry, and why am I thinking of him at a moment like this? Or perhaps it's purely a case of too many shocks to the system in a day. It just hits me. I'm exhausted.

Tiredness expels itself in a humungous yawn that hits my new – boyfriend? Can I call him that? – right between the eyes. "Sorry, sorry, that was rude, wasn't it?"

He yawns straight back at me. "Now look what you've started! You should get some sleep."

He looks worn out. If he hasn't taken the same physical punishment as me today, I fancy his mental burden's been the greater. "So should you, Commander."

I'm not the only one shocked by the promise I manage to squeeze into a formality if his blush is any guide. "Lemme get you comfortable first, _Lef_-tenant."

_Getting me comfortable_ includes a bit of subtle groping while he plumps up pillows and manoeuvres my black-and-blue body into a semi-recumbent position, pausing now and then to yawn and scrub his heavy eyes. "You could always stay for a bit, if you wanted?"

Where did _that_ come from?

The finest engineer since Henry Archer dissolves into a bashful boy. His lashes dip and his hands come up, fingers knotting at his middle. "Really?"

Shuffling across the bed hurts, but it's worth it. I barely have time to pat the space at my side before he's there, his solid length trapping me against the bulkhead. The mattress squeaks in protest against his additional bulk but when his arms come around me, deftly manipulating until I fit like a jigsaw piece up against him I forget to care. Aches and pains? Never heard of them!

Phlox left some medication to help me sleep. I'll return it to him on my way to the bridge tomorrow.

My love's deep, even breaths ruffle my hair. The relaxation he exudes as fatigue claims him soaks through our uniforms into me. I'm going to sleep brilliantly after all.


End file.
